Iambic Pentameter
by LemonSupreme
Summary: When Charlie finds out that her uncle Miles's best friend is none other than her literary idol, the reclusive poet Bass Monroe, she makes it her mission to track him down. When she finds him, he is drunk and surly and he hasn't written anything in years. She wants to help but isn't sure which will be more difficult - getting Monroe to write, or resisting her own desire for him...
1. Chapter 1

**This is for thegoodshipcharloe's Short & Sweet fic event. (no blackout - AU) **

* * *

Charlie lets the apartment door slam shut as she yanks her rolling suitcase through it. "Miles? I'm here!" She yells.

From somewhere down the hall, she hears a muffled response. She drops her things and follows the noise. Miles is in his kitchen, pulling a pizza from the oven. "You're early," he says with a grin as he sets the pizza down on the stovetop and pulls his niece into a warm hug. "How was the trip? Where's Danny?"

Charlie slips from his embrace, grabs the pizza cutter and begins to slice up the pie. "The trip was fine even though the bus driver was a lunatic. Danny isn't coming this summer."

"Why not? You guys have spent the summer with me for years."

"Mom told him that if he stayed home, she would buy him a car."

Miles's smile disappears. "She bribed him with a car?"

"Yep. It's a Mustang. Red. He loves it. He said he's sorry for bailing, but, well, he really wanted a car." Charlie shrugs, taking a bite from the steaming slice of pizza. She chews and swallows. "Don't be mad at him. You know Mom knows just how to push his buttons."

"What about you? She gave him a car and sent you here on a Greyhound?"

"Well, uh." Charlie turns to the fridge and grabs a beer. She takes a long drink and then she smiles at him impishly.

"What?"

"She offered me a car too. Told her to shove that car up her ass."

And just like that, Miles's sour mood evaporates into a stupid grin. "You know you're my favorite, right?"

"Oh yeah." Charlie sits down at the table and grabs another slice of pizza. "So, now that I'm here in Chicago, what do you have planned for our summer?"

"Well, we'll do all the usual. I do have to work quite a bit, but we'll find something for you to do while I'm gone."

* * *

Hours have passed. Miles and Charlie are sprawled out on the couch, watching a baseball game on TV. He turns to her. "What is your major again? Something with words."

"Really, Miles? Something with words?" Charlie asks with a smirk. "English Lit."

"And what do you want to do with that? Like for a job?"

"What I want to do and what I will do are not the same thing."

"What do you want to do?"

Charlie sighs. "I want to write. Poetry, short stories, the great American novel…all that."

"Poetry? Oh, Jesus."

Charlie sits up straight and scowls at her uncle. "What's wrong with poetry?"

"My best friend is a sad sack poet. Well, he was. Now he's a has-been sad sack poet. It hurts to talk to him."

"God, you're an ass!" Charlie laughs, punching at his shoulder.

"No argument there." Miles smirks. "So your dream is to be a sad sack poet. What do you think you will actually end up doing?"

She lets out a long sigh. "Teach, I guess. It's every English Lit major's fall back plan."

"You sound really excited about it," Miles teases.

"Shut up," Charlie groans before they both become quiet for a while. They sit in silence for a bit. "Wait. You said you know a has-been sad sack poet? Who is your friend?"

"You wouldn't know him. Wouldn't want to know him. He's a drunken asshole."

"I can see why he's your best friend, then."

"Oh, shut up."

"Seriously, what's his name? If he's a has-been poet, maybe I've heard of him? I do live and breathe poetry. Been reading it since I was a kid."

"Ugh. Doubt you'd know my friend, but whatever." Miles swallows the last bit of beer in his bottle. "Monroe. Name is Bass Monroe. He wrote a book of poetry two decades ago –"

Charlie stares, open mouthed. " _Sad Songs_ by Bass Monroe is one of my favorite volumes of poetry ever! You know him? You _personally_ know Bass Monroe? I mean, you KNOW him?" Charlie stands, pacing back and forth.

Miles watches her curiously. Charlie is usually calm and collected. "What crawled up your ass? It's weird, and unnecessary. I promise if he walked in right now, you wouldn't be impressed. Disgusted maybe…"

Suddenly she stops and stares. "Wait. Is he here in Chicago? You could just call Sebastian Monroe and he'd come over?"

Miles looks skeptical. "Are you absolutely sure we're talking about the same guy? Bass is my oldest friend. He's like a brother, but he's a giant ass. He drinks too much. He gets by on the fame of some woe is me bullshit he wrote twenty years ago."

"You never answered me." Charlie speaks slowly as if he is not terribly bright. "Is Bass Monroe in Chicago?"

Miles closes his eyes. "Shit. Yeah, Charlie. He lives in an old cabin near the lake, but you don't want to meet him. I promise. Even if you think you want to meet him, you don't."

"I've been spending summers with you for years. How have I never met him?"

"Honestly it never occurred to me that you'd want to, Charlie." He stands and heads for the kitchen. "I'm getting more beer. Want some?"

She shakes her head. "No. I'm good." As she sinks back into the couch cushions, she wonders how she can get Monroe's location from Miles. There has to be a way. Knowing that she's just one introduction away from her literary idol makes her head spin.

Monroe is her favorite poet - has been for years. In spite of the fact that he's only published the one book, he's the reason she first became interested in writing. She wants to talk to him. She wants to pick his brain. She wants to get his advice. She wants to get to know him, but first she has to find him.

* * *

In the week that follows, Charlie asks Miles more questions about his old friend – too many, it seems. After the first few days, he starts to change the subject anytime Monroe comes up.

She decides to take matters into her own hands. She scours Miles's apartment for clues. Luckily for her, her uncle is preoccupied with work. Unluckily for her, he hasn't left much for her to go on. She finds a signed hardcover copy of _Sad Songs_ on a dusty bookshelf and takes the book to her room, figuring Miles won't even miss it.

On the back cover is a faded photo of the author. She has seen the picture before, of course. She has a copy of the book at home. Seeing his picture now that she knows he's somewhere nearby sends a jolt through her system. He's gorgeous – or at least he was twenty years ago – with curly blond hair and clear blue eyes. His expression in the photo is serious and more than a little sad. She strokes the image of his clean shaven jaw with her finger, wondering what twenty years might have done to this beautiful man.

The book is full of haunted sadness, every page and poem rife with the pain of profound grief and loss. She's re-read over half of it while lying in Miles's spare bed, when she finds Monroe's name and a phone number scrawled on a scrap of paper that is tucked in the back of the book.

She stares at the number, her heart pounding. What are the chances that this number is still his? She bites her lip as she considers calling him.

The next night, after re-reading her favorite poem for the millionth time, she calls the number. The phone rings for what feels like forever. She's almost ready to hang up when she hears a gravelly voice answer. "What?" The voice demands.

Charlie ends the call, her heart pounding.

The next day she finds a cardboard box full of miscellaneous pictures in the back of her uncle's storage room. Several of the photos are of Miles and a man who is clearly Monroe because he looks just like the author's photo on the book. Most of the pictures are very old. Miles and Monroe are teenagers in some. There is a handful from their early days in the Marines. Two pictures appear to have been taken at a graduation.

Only one photo looks fairly recent. It shows the two friends standing under an unusually shaped tree. The lake is in the background and a weathered private dock is pushing into the water. They are holding beers and smiling drunkenly at the camera. The photo is slightly out of focus, but Charlie can see that Monroe has aged well. His hair is longer than it had been in the book jacket photo. He has a beard. He's lean and tan and his muscled arms are evidence that he stays active.

On the back of the photo is scrawled: 'Miles and Bass - Turtle Beach'.

Finally a clue she can work with. "Gotcha," she says with a triumphant smile.

* * *

Charlie sits at the kitchen table in Miles's apartment, typing away on her laptop when her uncle wanders into the room. "What are you doing?" he asks.

She minimizes her search window in what she hopes is a nonchalant move. "Oh, you know..."

Miles laughs and shakes his head. "Well NOW I do. Aren't you a little young to surf porn?"

Charlie chokes back a laugh. "I'm twenty-two so I don't think porn is all that out of the question, but no. Porn isn't my thing."

Miles shrugs. "Probably just haven't found the right kind yet. You will."

"Whatever," Charlie laughs as he heads out of the room.

As soon as she's sure he's gone, she opens her browser window again. Turtle Beach is a small fishing village on Lake Michigan. The land there has been passed down from generation to generation and the residents refuse to sell to developers no matter what price they are offered.

Charlie uses Google maps and census records to narrow down her search even further.

Finally, she sees it. An image of a weathered gray clapboard cabin with white shutters. It has a wide porch and private access to the lake behind. She recognizes the odd tree and the old weathered dock from the photo.

The place is registered to Jimmy King, but Charlie is confident.

She has found Bass Monroe.

* * *

The next day, as soon as Miles has left for work, Charlie takes a bus to Turtle Beach and walks to the only business she sees – an old bar. As Charlie gets closer, she looks around with a smile.

A flashing neon sign proclaims this particular watering hole as _The Shy Turtle_. Beer signs prominently advertise American beers on tap and a Hank Williams Jr. song drifts through the open door. She walks into the cool, dark interior.

The space is mostly empty but clean. A scarred bar top lines one wall, and small mismatched tables litter the rest of the space. There is no dance floor, but a gleaming Wurlitzer from a different time is clearly well-maintained.

This isn't a party place. If you come to the Shy Turtle, it is to do one thing: drink.

Charlie walks toward the bar, taking notice of the cute bartender who greets her with a nod and a smile. "Welcome. What can I get ya?"

She settles onto a barstool and flashes the cute bartender a grin. "Whiskey, neat."

He pours the drink and nudges it her way. "Never seen you around before. You up here visiting friends?"

"Kind of." She shrugs, taking a sip.

"I'm Jeff," he says, holding out a hand.

She shakes it. "Charlotte."

"Glad you wandered in here, Charlotte." He smiles, clearly interested. "We don't get a lot of strangers around the village. Mostly I just see the same old crusty fishermen who have lived here most of their lives."

Charlie pulls a picture from her back pocket. It's the one of Monroe with her uncle. "How about this one? He ever come in here?" She taps Monroe's image with a slim finger.

The bartender's smile fades. "We're a private bunch around here."

"Sorry. Just looking for him. Just want to talk."

Jeff nods thoughtfully. "Talk to me."

"Okay," Charlie says, forcing a smile. "You live around here? Are you one of the crusty fishermen?"

He smiles, relieved at the change of subject. "My dad is one. I never was very good at fishing. Bartending is more my thing."

"This your place?"

"It's owned by the village. Everyone pitches in, but my dad manages the place. I get paid mostly in beer."

Charlie laughs. "I've had worse jobs, although working with family can be… difficult."

"You worked for family before?"

"Tried. Failed." She shrugs.

"So, you going to be around here long?"

"For the summer at least. Maybe longer."

They watch each other in silence for a few minutes and then her gaze falls to the photograph lying on the bar. She'd really hoped to get some inside information before heading to his place. Miles has been no help at all.

He grumbles something under his breath.

"What?" She cocks an eyebrow as she takes another drink.

He sighs, giving in. "So yeah. I saw him a few weeks ago."

"Who?" she asks, coyly.

He nods to the picture still lying on the bar's surface. "Monroe."

Her heartbeat jumps with excitement. "Really? You saw him?"

"Yeah. Looked like cold hell warmed over, too."

"What do you mean? He was sick?"

"Drunk. Shit faced drunk….and then sick. Had to clean the stoop the next morning. He hasn't been back. He will be eventually, but not yet."

Charlie takes in a deep breath, letting it out slowly. "What's he like?"

Jeff shrugs. "Like I said, drunk."

"Always? He's always drunk?"

"Hell, I don't know. I work in the only bar in the village. When I see him, he's always drunk."

* * *

After downing two more whiskeys, Charlie decides to walk from the bar to Monroe's. Jeff tells her that his house is just about a half mile down the narrow road and she figures she can use the fresh air anyway. She puts the strap of her messenger bag over a shoulder and heads out after a quick good bye.

"Come back any time," Jeff calls with a wave.

She smiles without making promises and then heads down the road that wanders through ancient oaks and maples. Sunlight glistens through the branches, casting flashes of light into the cool shadows below. Other than the occasional bird song, the only sounds she hears are her own footfalls on the pavement.

Charlie loves the natural beauty of this largely untouched space, and she can see why the locals hold onto it so tightly, unwilling to let it be gobbled up and developed. The birds and the trees and the abundant fresh air are exactly what she needs to prepare her for meeting her idol.

She's not sure what she's hoping for exactly - maybe some advice from one writer to another, maybe some life wisdom, maybe just a chance to spend time with a truly talented poet.

She stops in front of the house. It looks bigger than it had on Google Earth, but it is definitely the same place. Weathered gray clapboard siding and white shutters. The lawn needs mowed and the porch needs a fresh coat of paint.

Charlie goes to the door, emboldened by the whiskey and her own Matheson stubbornness. She raises her fist to knock on the door when she hears a loud curse from the back. Deciding to follow the noise, she walks around the side of the house.

Lake Michigan is beautiful, and this particular private cove is picture perfect. As she gets closer, she sees something thrashing around in the water. Moving quickly, she is soon on the old dock that protrudes into the softly lapping water.

She scans the water and wonders if she was imagining things. Nobody is here. Charlie turns back to the house but only takes a couple steps before she hears something breaking through the surface of the water behind her.

She turns slowly and there he is.

Charlie sucks in a ragged breath as she watches him emerge from the gentle waves. Bass Monroe is walking out of the lake like some kind of water god. His curls are clinging to his head and his beard drips. Shoulders and toned arms and a perfectly sculpted chest come into view. His wet skin glistens in the sunlight as he emerges. Each step brings more of him into view. He's wearing soggy jeans that hang so low that she can see the vee of muscle that disappears under his waistband. The denim hugs his package and muscular thighs so tightly that she feels confident she knows exactly what he would look like naked.

He's drenched from head to foot and hasn't noticed he has a visitor. All of his attention is focused on the fishing rod gripped in his right hand as he steps onto the shore.

Charlie can't stop staring at the beautiful Adonis exiting the lake. Her heart pounds faster with every step he takes. "Holy shit," she mutters, mesmerized as droplets of water sluice over hard, tanned muscles.

She spoke louder than she intended to, she realizes, because suddenly, he looks up. His eyes are bloodshot as they zero in on her. "Who are you?"

She takes a tentative step forward, praying her knees won't give out. "Uh, I'm Charlotte."

He eyes her up and down and purses his lips. "Nice to meet you, Charlotte. Now, turn around and leave."

* * *

 **A/N Thanks as always to Romeo for giving this a beta review. I didn't get a chance to follow up with her after I made changes, so if anything looks wrong - blame only me.**

 **I had every intention of making this a one-shot, but alas it was not meant to be. I think there will be two more chaps of this, but before I continue it I do have to write chap 7 of Call Me When You're Home (the holiday collab I'm doing with Romeo) and also chap 3 of Taken. Then I'll be back here. You know me. I finish what I start. Just please be patient as I get there.**


	2. Chapter 2

Charlie stares open-mouthed as her literary hero walks by as if she isn't even there. She's tongue tied, though she's not sure if it's because he's her favorite poet or because he's half naked, dripping wet and beautiful.

He walks up his back steps without even sparing her a glance.

She tries to focus, but has a hard time tearing her eyes from those slick muscles and the wet denim that hangs low, showing the curve of a perfectly sculpted ass. Finally she gets her bearings. "Hey, I came a long way to see you. Do you have a minute?"

He looks over his shoulder, catching her gaze as he opens the door to his house. "Seems like you're seeing me just fine."

Charlie flushes hotly. The embarrassment morphs quickly into irritation when he walks through the door, letting it slam behind him.

"What a jerk," she mutters, crossing her arms.

After a moment, the door opens again and he leans out. "You comin'?" He looks bored and seriously hung over. Hell, maybe he's still drunk, but at least he's decided to be slightly welcoming. When she hesitates, he shrugs and lets the door slam shut again.

Maybe not so welcoming after all. Charlie narrows her eyes and squares her shoulders before stomping up the stairs and opening the door.

She glances around as she enters the cabin's small kitchen. Dirty dishes are stacked in the sink, and empty beer cans are overflowing from a plastic garbage can in one corner. Something smells awful. She sees that other than the mess, the room is empty. She walks through the door that leads into a large living room. The windows face the lake, and the view is beautiful. It's a good thing, because the rest of the space is not. Mismatched furniture is situated oddly. Stacks of books act as side tables, and dust bunnies litter the hardwood floor. Cobwebs fill every corner, and an empty pizza box lies open on the sofa.

Charlie scrunches her nose in distaste but forgets about the mess when she notices wet footprints that lead their way to a door on the opposite side of the room. She follows them with every intention of telling him he's being downright rude.

But then she forgets how to speak.

He is standing inside his bedroom with his back to her, sifting through a laundry basket that rests on an unmade bed. His wet jeans are lying in a pile just inside the door. She barely notices because her eyes are riveted to a naked ass so perfect, it begs to be touched and…

"So, why do you want to see me?" he asks without turning around. "Duncan send you?"

"Who's Duncan?"

"My agent. She used to send me hookers, hoping I'd get inspired." He turns to look at her then, letting his bleary eyes wander up and down her body. "Are you a hooker?"

His aren't the only eyes wandering. Charlie can't stop staring. If she'd thought his back was spectacular, she isn't sure there are even words for how amazing his front is.

He chuckles, and points to his face. "My eyes are up here. You didn't answer me."

"Huh?" Charlie guiltily looks up. "What was the question?"

He takes two steps toward her. Once again her eyes drift south. His cock is twitching to life and she inhales sharply.

His voice is low and gravelly. "I asked if you're a hooker? Cause that would be -"

"No!" she frowns as his words finally sink in. "I'm… I'm an English major. I just wanted to talk – not anything else."

Monroe sighs heavily. "Too bad. Don't want to talk to an English major. You can go now."

"You're saying you'd have talked to me if I was a hooker?" Her eyebrow arches high.

"Well, no. Didn't figure there would be a lot of talking." He licks his lips as his gaze travels down her long bare legs.

"You're disgusting."

"Disgusting?" He throws back his head and laughs. "Says the girl standing in my bedroom, staring at my dick. Maybe you'd like to suck on it just a little bit? That might entice me to talk to you." He shrugs. "You never know." His drunken smirk makes her temper flare, but instead of answering him, she whirls and leaves the room without saying another word.

When she heads back down the road toward the little bar, she doesn't even notice the beauty of the scenery or the sounds of the birds chirping. This time, as she makes her way down the winding road, her thoughts are far away.

Bass Monroe is not what she'd expected - not at all. He's crude and perverse and broken. He isn't writing, or if he is, he's not interested in sharing about what he writes. She wonders if somewhere, down deep, the man she's idolized is still there?

But more than that, she wonders if she's wasted a lot of time and effort tracking him down and coming all this way.

Charlie hates wasting her time. She starts to walk faster.

* * *

Charlie is still pissed as she stomps into the Shy Turtle. She walks straight to the bar and sits down. Jeff is wiping out a glass mug with a white terry cloth towel. "Hey, Charlotte. That was fast. You okay?"

She shrugs. "Yeah. I'm fine. When's the next bus?"

He glances at his watch. "Maybe a half hour. Want a drink while you wait?"

"Yeah. I could definitely use a drink."

He pours a whiskey and leans his elbows on the bar, watching her. "What happened?"

"Bass Monroe is an asshole. A serious fucking asshole."

"Well, yeah. Thought you said you knew him?"

She drinks and doesn't answer right away. Finally she shakes her head. "Not really. Wanted to meet him, or at least I thought I wanted to."

"So, Monroe wasn't what you expected?"

"He was drunk."

"Told you he's always drunk." Jeff chuckles, pouring a drink for himself.

"Yeah. You did. I should have listened." She lapses back into silence, nodding to her glass for a refill.

He obliges. "So, what now? Why'd you want to meet him anyway?"

Charlie sips at her drink, letting the burn of the alcohol soothe her irritation. "You know, he used to write? He published this book of amazing poetry a long time ago. Sad, emotional stuff…" She trails off, staring into her drink.

"Yeah. I know he was a writer. I also know he doesn't do that anymore."

"Such a waste. He was… he probably still is… so talented. I guess I wanted to talk to him and see if he ever thought about writing again. Maybe get some advice."

Jeff frowns. "Yeah, I don't think he wants to revisit that part of his life, and the only advice he'd probably give you is related to fishing lures."

"Not the kind of advice I'm looking for."

"You know why he wrote all that sad shit, right?" Jeff leans closer, his eyes latching onto hers.

Charlie nods. "I read all about him on Wikipedia. He lost his parents."

"And his sisters. All the same night."

Charlie's eyes go wide. "I didn't see that."

"Well, Wikipedia isn't always the best source for the truth. That's not all either."

"What do you mean?"

"The thing that drove him to write that book… it wasn't losing his parents or sisters in a car accident. As bad as that was, he was dealing with that. But then his wife and baby died in childbirth a few years later. It broke him."

Charlie's head is spinning. This certainly hadn't been covered on Wikipedia. Suddenly she sees why Miles hadn't wanted to talk about his old friend. Too much pain. "So, Monroe - he told you all that about his past?"

"Hell, no. He doesn't ever talk much when he's in here – not to me anyway. Just yells 'drink!' a lot. Sure as hell doesn't talk about his personal life. It was Duncan who told me. She comes in here sometimes." Jeff stares into space, lost in memory. Based on the smile, it's a good memory.

"And Duncan is...?" Charlie prods.

Jeff continues. "She was his agent or works for his publisher or something, although she's more his friend than anything else. She keeps checking up on him because she worries, I guess. Comes in here to ask about him now and then and see if he's okay. She likes to drink too and she's a talker."

Charlie empties her glass, and Jeff refills it again. She takes another sip. "So you and this Duncan person? Seems like maybe you more than talked to her?"

Jeff grins and his eyes twinkle. "A gentleman never tells."

Charlie is ready with a snarky comeback when the sound of squealing brakes jolts their attention to the parking lot in front of the bar. A dusty pick-up truck slams into the railing before sputtering to a stop.

"Ah, hell." Jeff groans. "Speak of the devil."

"The devil?" Charlie asks. Her mind is still on the person named Duncan, so she's surprised to see none other than Bass Monroe get out of the truck. He walks through the splintered wood that now litters the porch as if it's not there.

Monroe is dry now, wearing blue jeans with holes in the knees, a gray tee shirt and old boots.

"Drink!" he hollers before his eyes have even adjusted to the darkness. He's sliding onto a barstool when he notices Charlie. "You?"

"Yeah, me." She scowls at him. "Nice of you put some clothes on."

"Oh, you like me with clothes on? The way you were looking at me with my clothes off makes me wonder if that's true."

Charlie grits her teeth and is saved from responding when Jeff comes to stand in front of Monroe, his hands flat on the bar. "You got your license back?" he asks.

"Nope." Monroe grabs a bowl of peanuts and picks one out, cracking the shell and popping it into his mouth. "Why?"

"Cause you just drove your truck into the fucking bar and you're clearly drunk. You're paying for repairs to the railing. You know that, right?"

Bass waves his hand back and forth. "Whatever. Just get me a drink."

Jeff crosses his arms. "Not yet. What's your deal? Charlotte says you were a jerk to her, and evidently were flashing her or something. What's up with that?"

Bass points a finger in Charlie's general direction without looking her way. "That wasn't my fault. That woman followed me into my bedroom. Didn't have to follow me in there or stare at my ass." He shrugs. "Please can I get a drink?" he asks nicely this time.

"Keys." Jeff holds out a hand and Monroe scowls but hands them over. He ignores Charlie as he takes the beer he's offered and drinks deeply.

She's tempted to leave. The bus will be here soon and she doesn't want to miss it, but she's come all this way and after hearing more of Bass Monroe's story, she just has to try one more time. He may be a crazy drunken asshole, but he's still her favorite poet. She turns to Monroe. "Can I ask you some questions?"

Bass stops with the bottle almost to his lips. "Are you still not a hooker?"

Jeff chokes on his own drink. "Monroe! Don't be such a dick. She's a nice girl."

"Doesn't matter if she's a nice girl. I don't want to talk about what she wants to talk about." Monroe shrugs, and then seems to remember something. "Hey, did anyone answer my ad?"

Jeff nods. "Yeah, but as soon as I told them how little you were paying and what a mess they'd be taking on, they all said hell, no."

"Well, shit." Bass downs his beer. "Another," he demands.

"What kind of ad?" Charlie asks, almost afraid to learn the answer. She watches as Jeff hands Monroe another beer.

Bass swivels in her direction and looks at her properly for the first time since he came into the bar. "Jeff was gonna put something on Craigslist for me."

"Why didn't you do it yourself?"

Jeff guffaws. "Cause this idiot lives in the fucking dark ages. He doesn't have a computer or a television or even an air conditioner. I think his only phone is still hooked to the wall with a long curly cord."

Charlie can't help but smile a little and tilts her head. "So, you hate technology?"

Monroe shrugs. "Can't be bothered with it."

"So, what kind of ad did you have him put on Craigslist?"

"Not that it's any of your business, but I need someone to clean my cabin."

Charlie grimaces. "Ew. I can see why nobody wants that job. Your place is a pigsty."

"And he doesn't want to pay shit." Jeff adds. "He's never going to get anybody to work for his drunk ass for the money he's willing to pay."

Gears begin to whir in Charlie's head. "What are you paying?" she asks Monroe.

He sets his beer down carefully and looks at her again, smirking. "Why? You wanna work for me? I don't have a lot of disposable income at the moment, so the pay would be low. Then again, maybe I could pay you in a way that doesn't include money?" His eyes glitter with cruel heat.

Charlie squares her shoulders. "Yeah, maybe."

"What?" Jeff and Monroe both ask in unison.

Charlie nods. "Yeah, I'll clean your nasty house and you can pay me with something other than money. I'll get what I want and you will too, for free."

Jeff shakes his head. "Clearly you've had too much to drink."

Monroe holds out a hand. "She can't help it, Jeff. She saw me naked. Women never can say no once they've seen me naked."

Charlie blushes hotly. "What I did or didn't see is irrelevant. I want a different kind of payment. Not money, and not…" She waves in the general direction of his crotch. "That."

"What do you want, then?" He frowns at her, clearly not expecting to like her answer.

"I want to talk about your poetry. I'll clean your house and in return you talk to me about poetry and writing..."

"No." He's staring at his beer bottle. His jaw is tight.

"Fine. Whatever." Charlie stands, throwing a twenty on the bar. "Keep the change, Jeff. I have a bus to catch."

Jeff pockets the bill with a smile. "It was nice meeting you, Charlotte. Hope to see you around again."

She waves and walks out into the waning sunlight. The bus stop is a quarter mile down the road and she heads in that direction.

She hasn't gone far when the sounds of a loud engine can be heard from behind her. Instinctively, she moves to the far side of the road. When the old truck pulls up beside her and Bass leans his head out the window, she stops. With hands on hips, she shakes her head. "Didn't he take your keys?"

"Those were a decoy. I left the real ones in the ignition. Get in."

"You are delusional. No way am I letting you drive me anywhere. You just ran into a bar." She turns and begins to walk. The truck inches along beside her.

"Sorry I asked if you were a hooker."

"Repeatedly."

"Yeah, repeatedly. Sorry about that."

She won't turn to face him. "Apology accepted. Now go home and sleep it off."

"I thought about your offer."

"And?"

"I'll do it. You clean my house, and I'll talk to you about poetry."

Charlie stops and turns, unable to hide the grin that covers her face. "Really?"

"Your poetry. Not mine," he clarifies. "Not talking about mine." His lips are set in a firm line.

"My poetry?" She asks.

"Yeah. Bring whatever you've written. We can talk about it after you're done with the house cleaning."

She starts to argue, but figures this is a start. "Wait. I never said I wrote poetry."

He rolls his eyes. "You're an English major. Goes with the territory."

"When do I start?"

"Come by in the morning, but not too early."

"How about ten?"

"Make it noon. Don't wear anything nice. Gonna be dirty and like Jeff said, I don't have AC."

"Can I use your shower when I'm done?"

His eyes light up and his grin is simply sinful. "Sure. I'll even show you how it works."

"I know how showers work."

He pouts a little. "Fine. Bring a change of clothes. We'll figure out the rest tomorrow."

She watches as he does a u-turn and heads back down the road toward his cabin. This day had not turned out the way she'd expected, but she is more than a little excited to see what comes next.

As she walks the rest of the way to the bus stop, she thinks about all she's learned about Monroe. His personal loss, his unwillingness to discuss his early writings, his surly drunkenness, his perverted sense of humor…

And his naked body...

Charlie sucks in a deep breath and prays that she'll be able to keep her hands to herself. But then again, maybe it would be worth it not to…

No. Charlie shakes her head. She wants to pick his brain because he's a genius poet. She wants his advice on ways to improve her writing. She wants to know how he turned his personal tragedy into something so incredibly evocative and beautiful. That's all.

Isn't it?

* * *

Later that night, Miles is leaning against the guest room door frame, watching Charlie as she sits cross legged on her bed, typing away on her computer. He's eating peanut butter from the jar with a spoon. "So, where are you going tomorrow? You were talking so fast when you got home, I didn't understand what you said."

She shuts her laptop slowly and looks up. "Oh, uh… Well, I got a temp job working for this writer I met." Charlie schools her features, attempting to keep any tell-tale signs of the truth from her expression. "Nothing major, but she's agreed to look over some of my stuff."

Miles nods with a relieved half-smile. "She, huh? What's her name? What's she like? Has she written anything I would have read?"

"Has anyone written something you would have read?"

"Ouch." Miles laughs. "I just want to make sure this is on the up and up. That's all. I didn't even know you were looking for a job."

"God, Miles. I'm not a kid. Sometimes you treat me like I'm twelve."

"Sorry. Old habit. You don't have to tell me anything about your new job, but maybe you'll introduce me to this writer sometime, so I won't worry?"

"We'll see. Anyway, you owe me an introduction before I owe you one."

He rolls his eyes. "Jesus. Is this about Bass, again? Give it a rest. Nothing good would come from you meeting him. I'm glad you found a writer to work with who isn't my oldest friend. Sounds like a much better fit for you."

She looks at her uncle and frowns, trying to keep the mental images of how exactly Bass Monroe might 'fit' from invading her brain. "Are we having dinner or what?" She nods at the peanut butter.

Miles shakes his head. "Nope. You're gonna have to fend for yourself, Kid. I have a date."

"Who's the lucky lady?" Charlie smiles, happy that the conversation has changed course.

"Name is Nora. She's great. Maybe you can hang out with us some night? Order a pizza or whatever. How long is the temp job going to last?"

"Not sure. Probably just a few days. Maybe a week."

"Think it'll keep you very busy?"

Her mind is suddenly filled with thoughts of all the ways Bass Monroe could keep her busy. She remembers the sight of all that tight skin and those firm muscles. She closes her eyes, unable to escape the memory of him facing her, naked and proud.

Yes, he's an asshole, but he's an interesting, sexy asshole and she can't help but feel a flutter of excitement at the prospect of getting to know him better and picking his brain and….

Charlie feels her pussy throb with the memory of how Monroe had looked as he emerged from the lake, and later when he was in his room. Shit. This is going to be the toughest job ever, and not because she'll be a maid. "Not sure," She finally answers Miles. "Guess I'll find out tomorrow."

* * *

 **A/N A huge thank you to TexasRevoFan for a beta review. I was too impatient to get a final sign off from her, so if you see errors, they are all mine. Comments are lovely. Hint. Hint.**


	3. Chapter 3

The sun is high in the sky as Charlie gets off the bus. The oppressive heat and humidity make her truly regret leaving the tepid air conditioning that the bus had provided. The air is still except for the buzz of insects and the distant chirping of birds. She smacks away a mosquito and then digs into her messenger bag for a hair band which she uses to pull her hair into a high ponytail. It helps, but just barely. Her tank top and jean shorts already cling to her heated skin.

Charlie leaves the bus stop behind and makes her way through the tiny village of Turtle Beach. Everything is quiet. As she passes by the bar, she notices that the broken railing on the front porch is cleared away. If the place was open, she'd stop in for a beer, but the windows are dark, and a battered closed sign hangs crookedly on the front door.

She figures this is just as well. One cold beer in this weather would never be enough, and she still has a lot of work ahead of her if she wants Monroe to talk to her about poetry today.

At the thought of Monroe, Charlie's mind wanders to the way he'd looked walking out of the lake, his body slick and wet. She shakes her head. Poetry. Today is only about poetry… poetry and house cleaning.

Monroe's cabin comes into view between towering oak and pine trees. Much like the village she'd just walked through, his place also looks deserted. She passes the old truck as she heads for the porch. It is parked half on top of the lawn. She walks up the steps, adjusting the strap of her bag. She knocks.

There is no answer. She knocks again.

Still nothing. Charlie glances at her watch and frowns as a drop of sweat trickles down her forehead and along the bridge of her nose. It's noon, and that is the time he'd told her to be here. She reaches out and turns the doorknob. The door opens with the faintest creaking sound. She leans her head inside. "Hello?"

The interior of the house is dark and silent. She steps through the open door, lured by the subtle coolness she senses within. The shutters are closed against the sunlight, and the shadowy interior is easily fifteen degrees cooler than the outdoors had been. Carefully, she makes her way through the cluttered living room.

Monroe is nowhere to be seen.

She walks on toward his bedroom. "Mr. Monroe?" she calls out as she slowly pushes open the half-closed door. She'd been right. Monroe is sprawled out on his stomach, still wearing the jeans and tee shirt from the day before.

Charlie takes a few steps closer. He's either passed out or he's dead – she's not sure which. Either way, he looks just as good as she'd remembered. His curls are fanned out around his head like a halo. His shirt has twisted around his body as he slept, showing off a tanned expanse of tight abdominals. "Uh, Mr. Monroe?"

No answer, but at least she can tell he's breathing. That's a relief. She reaches out and pokes his shoulder gently with a finger. "Hey. Mr. Monroe?" He doesn't move.

Charlie frowns and heads toward the door. She stops and turns once more to face the bed when she hears his voice. "Conmrgrffss."

"What did you say?"

His voice is muffled by his pillow, but when he repeats himself, she can make out, "Call me Bass," before he drifts off again and begins to snore.

She stares at his sleeping form for a moment, thoughts swirling. She's torn between her appreciation of how sexy he looks as he's lying there and her irritation that he's sleeping in the first place. "What the hell," she finally thinks. "I might as well get started." Charlie goes into the main part of the house. She tosses her messenger bag on the sofa and looks around, hands on hips.

The mess is as bad as she remembers, too. Stacks of books, discarded dirty clothes, dishes, and trash everywhere. She picks up an old pizza box and shakes her head. Where should she even begin? Charlie takes the box into the kitchen, looking for a trash can. She finds it and wrinkles her nose as she puts the box inside, deciding to start in the kitchen since it smells worse than the rest of the place.

She starts opening cabinet doors, wondering where he keeps cleaning supplies or if he even owns any. Under the kitchen counter, she finds a sad assortment of bottles and a bucket. The labels on the dusty bottles are faded and most are barely half full. Nothing like the seemingly endless supply of top-of-the-line cleaning products that could always be found in Charlie's childhood home, thanks to her obsessive mother. Still, the bare essentials are present though, and she pulls out what she needs to get started.

In a narrow room behind the kitchen, she finds a clothes washer and dryer as well as a broom and mop. Miraculously, a pile of clean towels lies on top of the drier. She grabs a couple of the oldest ones to use as cleaning rags.

Now that she has everything she needs, Charlie digs in. She starts clearing counters and washing dishes. She's washed her second of about a dozen dirty coffee cups, when she has an idea about how to get Monroe out of bed. She finds a big can of Maxwell House in one of the cupboards and starts brewing a pot.

The kitchen table is covered with freshly washed dishes when he finally wanders out, his eyes bleary. "You?"

"Yeah, me. Forget I was coming?"

He shrugs, making a beeline for the coffee pot. "Forgot it was gonna be so damn early." He pours a cup and takes a deep gulp before looking her up and down. "Remind me. What was our deal again?"

Charlie swallows hard. Even rumpled and hungover, Bass Monroe is a sight to behold. Her resolve to keep things professional weakens when he looks at her like he wants to rip her clothes off. She frowns. "Uh, the deal was that I clean your house and you talk about your poetry."

He narrows his eyes. "Nah. Wasn't that drunk. Pretty sure I offered to talk about yours. You bring it?"

She nods toward a short stack of composition notebooks that she has piled on a chair by the kitchen table. "Yeah. I brought some."

"I'm taking a shower then I'll look at your stuff." He leaves the kitchen without waiting for a response. Her gaze follows him as he leaves the room.

He glances over his shoulder and chuckles when he sees Charlie checking out his ass. He holds up his cup. "Thanks for the coffee," he says before disappearing back into his room.

Charlie shakes off the mental image of Monroe in the shower and then gets back to work. She cleans out the refrigerator, which turns out to be fairly easy. Monroe doesn't have much actual food. The contents include a block of cheddar cheese, a jar of green olives and a pack of bologna. He has some bottled water and a lot of beer. That's it. His cupboards aren't much better. She finds a loaf of bread and a jar of peanut butter, along with some sad-looking canned vegetables. This man desperately needs to visit the grocery store.

She's drying the dishes and putting them away when he comes back into the kitchen a half hour later. He looks far more alert. His hair is damp, and he's wearing faded denim cutoffs and nothing else. He picks up the notebooks and grabs a bottle of water from the refrigerator, pausing next to her.

Monroe looks around the room and nods. "There is a box fan back in my room if you want to bring it out." His eyes linger on the damp fabric of her tank top. The clinging garment perfectly hugs her breasts. "Looks good."

Charlie arches an eyebrow as her pulse quickens. "Excuse me?"

When he smiles, his eyes crinkle. "I meant the kitchen. You're doing a good job. Did you find the cleaning supplies you need?"

"Yeah, I think so." She shrugs. "Want me to come with you?" Charlie points to the notebooks. She's overcome by nervousness. Just seeing her notebooks in his hands is making her have some serious second thoughts about this whole 'deal'.

"Nah. You stay here and do your thing." Bass pulls a pair of reading glasses from where they'd been stashed on top of the microwave and heads toward the back door. "I want to read first. We'll talk later."

"Where are you going to read?"

His smile is slow and sexy. "My office."

Charlie's mind fills with an image of a dark office and a big oak desk – a desk he could bend her over…. She shakes her head. No. She needs to focus. Monroe has walked off, headed to the back of the house. As the screen door slams shut behind him, her thoughts clear. Where the hell is his office?

Charlie watches through the kitchen window as he heads toward the lake. He goes out to the end of his dock and sits on the edge, dangling his feet in the lapping water. She watches as he gets settled, puts on his glasses and opens the first notebook.

She leans against the kitchen counter and breathes in and out slowly, hoping to settle her nerves and her libido. She can't believe he's reading her notebooks. They are filled with her drabbles and poems. There are some complete short stories and plot outlines for several more. Everything written in longhand, straight from her heart. She'd never let anyone look at them before. She'd felt like she knew Monroe, since she'd loved his poetry for so long, but now, feeling this raw and exposed, she realizes she doesn't know him at all. She has no idea how he is going to react, and the uncertainty is killing her.

"Shit." Charlie shakes her head, suddenly second guessing this whole plan. Why did she agree to let him read her writing? Why had she left herself so vulnerable to a man who, in her every experience so far, had been a barely-functioning asshole? Part of her wants to run out to the dock and grab her notebooks out of his hands, but she won't. All she can do is wait.

When Monroe comes back in two hours later, the kitchen and bathroom are spotless. Charlie is on her knees in front of the oven, which she's been scrubbing with a wire brush. The box fan from his bedroom is circulating the air, but just barely.

She looks up as Bass opens the fridge and grabs a six pack of beer. He opens a bottle and eyes her as he drinks. His expression is unreadable.

Charlie bites her lip. "So, what did you think?"

"Follow me." He doesn't wait for a response, turns and heads out the door, beer in hand.

She blows at sweaty strands of hair that have escaped her ponytail. She's more than ready for a break, but the idea of facing his opinion of her work gives her pause. She takes a deep breath and follows him outside.

When she gets to the dock, Monroe is sitting on the edge, his shadow shimmering on the water's surface. He's still wearing only the cut-offs, and all that exposed skin glows golden in the sunlight. He gestures to the worn boards next to him. "Sit," he says.

Charlie frowns, noticing that his beer is resting on top of her composition notebooks. "Aren't you going to tell me what you thought?"

"Yeah." He dangles his feet in the water before glancing over one shoulder. "Sit," he says again. "You want to talk poetry; we'll do it out here."

Charlie huffs out a frustrated breath, but kicks off her flip-flops and takes a seat beside him. The water feels cool on her toes, and she sighs in spite of her stubborn resolve to appear unaffected. By the water, the view. The gorgeous and suddenly intimidating man beside her.

Monroe nods, watching her thoughtfully. "It's okay. It could be better. Some of it is shit. You know that, right?"

Charlie scowls. "Seriously? You brought me out here to tell me my writing is shit?"

"Not all of it. Some of it is promising."

"Promising?" Charlie is fuming. Her feeling of nervousness from earlier has morphed into a brooding disappointment. She'd taken a chance, and now it has blown up in her face.

"Yeah, some of this can be salvaged." He taps the top book, opens it up and points to a particular page. "This one, for example. It's got good bones, but it needs more."

"More what?" Charlie feels her mood lightening. From the tone of his voice, he does seem to want to help.

He shakes his head. "First, let me ask you a question."

"What?"

"What do you like about poetry? You said you loved my book… but why?"

Charlie is confused. "Thought you said we weren't going to talk about your poetry?"

"We aren't." He shakes his head. "I just want to know why you liked it – hell, why do you like any poetry? What makes a poem stand out to you when you are reading? What makes you read one again and again?"

"Oh." She pauses, gathering her thoughts. "I guess the poems I like the most are the ones that make me feel something."

He watches her, his blue eyes narrow and his lips twitch. "That's interesting."

"Interesting?" Charlie is more confused than ever. "What are you getting at?"

"For someone who likes emotion in the poetry she reads, you seem to go out of your way to avoid putting any in your own. Why is that?"

"I don't – " Charlie falters. "You don't think there is any emotion in my poems?"

"Some, maybe. Nothing real." He takes a drink from his beer. "Nothing raw. You tell us what you see but not how any of it makes you feel."

"So, I suck?"

"Didn't say that. Anyway, I think I can help."

"Oh yeah? How?"

"Close your eyes."

Charlie smirks and shakes her head. "No."

"I'm not going to push you in the lake," he tells her. "Your writing isn't bad. It's just dry. I want you to use your senses more and let them help you show your emotions through your words."

She narrows her eyes and watches him for a moment. He meets her gaze and she feels a flush of heat as their gazes lock. "Uh, and I have to close my eyes for that?"

He takes a drink from his beer and then pulls another bottle from the cardboard carrier and pops the lid off against the edge of the dock. He holds it out to her. "Yeah, but you need this first."

Charlie takes a long, satisfying drink and then glances his way again. "Why do I need to close my eyes?"

He frowns. "Just do it."

She closes her eyes. "Now what?"

"Tell me what you hear."

Charlie tries to focus on the sounds, but his closeness is distracting. Finally she says, "Birds singing. The waves. A boat off in the distance."

"What else?"

Charlie shrugs. "A bug is flying around to my right and I can hear a car driving somewhere. It's far off."

"What do you taste?"

She smiles at this, her eyes still closed. "Cold beer."

"What do you smell?" His voice is low and husky and sounds closer.

"Those flowers by the shore and the lake itself – it has that mossy, fishy smell."

"What else?"

She tries to think of any answer other than the truth, but is failing. The truth is that all she can smell is him. His heated flesh is sweaty. There is an underlying fragrance of his shampoo. His breath, now hot on her cheek, smells of beer.

"Beer." She finally answers, proud that she had come up with something.

"Good." He pauses. "So we've covered sound, taste and smell. What's left?" he teases.

"Uh, touch?" Charlie shivers as his fingertips slide along her bare thigh.

"Yes. Touch. Tell me about it."

"I'm touching the water?" She splashes her feet gently in the waves. "I feel the heat of the sun on my skin and a tiny breeze..."

"What else?" His fingers trace the skin at the hem of her shorts. His touch is electric.

"Um, you. I can feel your fingers and your breath. You are closer than you were before." Her voice falters.

"Too close?" he asks, his words are raspy and low.

Charlie feels her pulse quicken. "Didn't say that." She licks her lips.

"Mmmm." His own lips brush ever so slightly against her cheek. "I want you to write about it."

"Write about what?" Charlie isn't even sure what they are talking about anymore. His presence is overwhelming, and she's struggling to focus on his words.

"This moment and all the different ways you feel in it. Include what you see and smell and touch and the way all of those things _feel_." His tongue flicks hotly at her earlobe.

She shudders slightly, and her eyes open. "You want me to write about this?"

He leans away from her, his expression now guarded, seemingly unaffected by the closeness from moments before. "Yeah. Bring me something tomorrow. Something that is raw and real. Something that brings me back to this moment." He takes a drink, his gaze moving to the gentle waves on the lake. "Can you do it?"

Charlie finishes her own beer, grabs her notebooks and stands. It takes all of her effort to keep her knees from shaking. His closeness had aroused her, confused her, made her crave more. Can she write about it? Does she dare? She takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. "I'll try."

He doesn't make any effort to stand or follow as she heads down the dock. "Same time tomorrow?" he asks over his shoulder.

She slows and turns, taking in the view of his toned back and arms and the curls on his head. Set against the backdrop of the cool blue water, he looks simply amazing. She feels a hum in her veins from the cold beer on an empty stomach. She feels a throbbing need in her sex and that has nothing to do with the beer. "Yeah. Same time tomorrow."

Can she write about this moment? Yeah, she thinks she can.

 **A/N This chapter wouldn't be what it is without the much appreciated assist from TexasRevoFan who helped me turn this into something worthy of posting. THANKS!**

 **Leave a comment if you have a minute, folks. Love to hear from you.**


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